


Lure

by redcigar



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Murder Husbands, Original Character Death(s), POV Outsider, Post-Series, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 06:59:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8964481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcigar/pseuds/redcigar
Summary: They have been officially Lost for a good hour by the time they hear the music.





	

They have been officially Lost for a good hour by the time they hear the music. Alice is on the verge of unconsciousness, shirt sweat-stained and sticking to the cooling skin of her stomach. Ahead of her, Rob and Peter are arguing over the map again. It is already torn and damp from each grab of their clammy fingers, trying to make heads and tails of the dense jungle around them. They’re only a few hours out of La Paz, but they might as well have wandered into the middle of the damn Amazon rainforest for all the good the map is doing. As for North or South, they have no compass, just rope burns around their wrists and wallets a lot lighter than they were when they first slipped away from the travel group. Not for the first time Alice wishes she was back with them, wandering around the cool interior of the _Museo Costumbrista_ and being bored out of her mind by china dolls in fancy outfits.

“Mozart,” says Peter, out of the blue.

“Well, it’s official,” Rob says tiredly, “he’s lost it. Maybe we can put his shirt to good use as a white flag when he dies from fucking dysentery, or whatever the hell is in this bottle. Speaking of,” he stops, and tosses Alice the bottle.

She catches it on instinct, and shakes it lightly. She can barely hear the liquid inside. The bottle feels light as a feather.

“Fuck you,” says Peter, “who’s idea was it to meet up in the ass-end of nowhere for the drop? Yours, so shut the hell up. Christ, why did I agree to this?”

“Because your dad is a lawyer with pockets deeper than fucking Trump’s, you jackass. What were you talking about then?”

“ _Mozart_ ,” snaps Peter, but then Alice pauses, because hey, she can hear it too. Except –

“Wagner,” she calls, “ _Flight of the Valkyrie_. Not Mozart.”

“Right, right,” Peter sighs, “with the helicopters.”

“Of _course_ that’s where you know it from.”

“Shut the fuck up, Alice,” he starts again, but Rob is holding up a hand, brow furrowed.

He’s red from his face down to his wrists, and his shirt has dark stains from the pits all the way down to the hem. Peter is not much better off, being the fairest of the three. Alice isn’t looking forward to the inevitable peeling that will come tomorrow, or whenever it is that they get the hell out of this god-forsaken jungle.

“Yeah,” Rob says, “yeah, I hear it too.”

They cast each other anxious, fleeting looks. Given the company they just departed from, the music may not necessarily indicate a friendly face. Eventually, when they all begin to linger, Peter makes a high, frustrated noise, stomping his feet agitatedly in the underbrush.

“Fuck this,” he decides, clambering through the ferns, “I’ll take my chances.”    

“Hey, wait--!” Alice calls, but Rob is already on his heels, and soon their sparse, sweaty frames are disappearing through the trees towards the music, and the sound of rushing water. Nervously, Alice glances over her shoulder. There is nothing there, just like there has been nothing in the last hour since they left the campsite with its refurbished auto-parts used as furniture, its barrels of bathtub alcohol and the lingering sweat of imported cigars.

Alice runs ahead.

The boys have made good ground. By the time she catches up to them they have shoved through the dense flora out onto a muddy bank, overlooking a narrow river. The music is shockingly loud there, and Alice shuffles up to their side, as they size up the sight that greets them. It’s a houseboat, a decent size, although not up to the grandeouise proportions Alice is used to in the West Coast. A buttery colour, the boat has a great canvas shading the upper deck, and the music appears to be coming from a radio set up on a picnic table. From the bank of the river, the trio can see a man reclining in a chair near to it, with a fishing rod in hand and a line already in the water. He is wearing a pale hat, drawn down over his eyes, and his white button-down is rolled up to the elbow.

“Jesus H. Christ,” says Rob. “Check out this clown!”

“Shut the fuck up,” hisses Peter, “they might have a bathroom on that thing.”

“Shit, you’re right,” replies Rob, “quick, Alice, take your top off, maybe they’ll let us on.”

“Fuck you,” she snaps, blushing, “ _you_ take _your_ top off. You’ve got better boobs than me, chubby.”

“ _The fuck_ ,” he says, turning, but their argument has attracted the attention of the fisherman, who is now looking in their direction. Alice and the boys quiet automatically. Peter is shifting uncomfortably on his feet, and Alice knows why. She hopes he can hold out until they get back to the city, at least.

“H-Hey there!” Rob calls, approaching the bank. There’s a sort of jetty there, but it is run down. Rob balances on one rotten plank and waves awkwardly. “Uh – help?”

The fisherman stands, but slowly. He takes his time setting the rod into a hook on the deck railing, and then approaches the radio, turning the swelling choir down to a distant hum. Blinking through her sweat and growing fever, Alice thinks she can make out a neat black beard, and a sweep of dark hair that is curling in the humidity underneath his crisp white hat.

“Hey there,” the man calls back, his voice even and calm. His voice sounds American, nothing like the rolling accent Alice has learnt to parse through in the Bolivian streets and urban city-centres, the colourful mix of European and African. Instead the man’s voice recalls her back to the Mid-West, or perhaps even further South. There’s an inflection there, on the end, something she can’t quite place.

“Please tell me you have a bathroom on that thing!” Peter shouts, desperate.

The man hesitates, and then chuckles, low.

“Sure thing,” he says, and then, “you tourists? Got separated from the trail, or something?”

“Yeah!” Rob says, laughingly, “Yeah, man, exactly. Just our luck, right?”

“Uh huh,” the man says.

Alice finally thinks she can place the curious tilt to his voice. She thinks it is amusement.

“Come on up,” the man says, “We’ll fix you some drinks.”

“We?” Alice hisses at Rob, nervous, but he brushes her off, moving enthusiastically to the edge of the jetty where the man is letting down a boarding platform. They clamber on board. Alice is the last to climb on, and when she reaches out her arm, eyes on her footing, it is not Rob or Peter who takes it but the fisherman. His arm is surprisingly cool against her feverish skin, and her clammy hand slips against his dry, rough palm. She looks up in shock, and is greeted by a handsome, slightly delicate face, and cool blue eyes.

“Looks like it’s your lucky day, after all,” the fisherman says.

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

The fisherman introduces himself as Adam, and laughingly shakes off Rob’s half-serious questions about his fishing progress.

“I wouldn’t want to eat anything that came out of this river,” he says, with a graceful sort of chuckle as he carves ice out of an opened eski.

Peter has disappeared around the back of the boat, where Adam said the toilet was located, and Alice has taken possession of a nearby deck chair and is resting chunks of ice against her sweltering throat. There’s a small electrical fan on the table next to her, its humming is a type of lullaby. Next to it sits a pile of hobby magazines and a small paperback novel with yellow pages and a frayed bookmark sticking out of one end. Alice peers at the cover but can’t make out the language.

“I wish I could say you lot were the first lost tourists we’ve come across, but this area tends to lend itself to chaos a little too easily.” Adam is saying, as he cracks the ice into small square glasses and then covers them from a bottle of chilled iced tea.

“Yeah,” Rob laughs, trying to cover his nervousness. He shoots a venomous look at Alice, and she squirms uncomfortably on the deck-chair. “It definitely got chaotic for a while there. So uh, you a tourist, too? You seem sort of set-up, here.”

Adam shrugs, smiling his quizzical half-smile. He stands, passing them each a glass. Alice cradles the chilled glass against her hot face and sighs with relief.

“Yes and no. Not a native, but been here long enough to know not to go wandering off into the jungle by myself with an outdated map and only one bottle of water.”

“Some might call that common sense,” comes a voice, thick with accent, from the stairwell leading below deck.

Alice sits upright on the deckchair, stomach clenching nervously. The man that appears is unassuming enough. An older man, slate-blond hair falling in his deep-set eyes. He’s wearing a light button up over weather-appropriate cargo pants and is barefoot. Expensive, but light. When he appears, Adam sets about pouring another drink, and passes it to him too. They stand close together for a moment. The second man murmurs a quiet thanks to Adam. Their eyes meet. Alice looks past them, and sees Rob’s expression turn briefly ugly. She decides to deflect.

“Thanks again, for picking us up like you did. Who knows how much longer we might have been out there.”

“No thanks necessary,” the new man says, approaching her with a broad hand outstretched, “Moze. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Moze,” Alice says, trying to emulate the name in his rolling accent. “I’m Alice. This is Rob. Peter you probably saw on his mad run for the toilet.”

“We met briefly,” Moze agrees, smiling benignly. Behind him, Adam is fiddling with an open box of tackle. “He appeared to be in a state of much distress.”

“Uh, yeah,” Rob coughs, looking away, “probably tainted water in that bottle. Got it from the locals, you know how these places are, can’t trust anything that comes out of a tap.”

“Indeed,” says Moze, “the things people put into their bodies.”

There is a great pause. Adam clears his throat. Alice takes a long sip of her iced tea. It’s so cold it burns all the way going down.

“Nothing biting yet?” Rob asks after a moment, voice high with tension. His sunburn is coming up brilliant, cheeks and shoulders gleaming raw and red like fresh meat. Adam casts the rod a rueful glance, and Moze’s expression turns quietly doting. Alice blushes to witness it.

“Like I said, nothing worth eating.” Adam says. “It’s a case in which the ends do not justify the means, as it were.”

“The exercise itself is an act of pleasure.” Adds Moze, eyes on the brunette.

“Even if you don’t catch anything?” Asks Alice, doubtfully.

“Well,” muses Moze, “we caught you, did we not?”

There is another pause. Moze smiles at her, confidingly.

Alice laughs nervously. She briefly wonders how Peter is doing.

“In any case,” Moze continues, “it is lucky indeed that we came across you when we did. There is talk of dangerous groups in the area these days. _Basuco_ traffickers are an unavoidable presence this close to the urban centre.”

 Alice crunches hard on her ice. Her teeth hurt.

“ _Basuco_?” she echoes. “What’s that?”

“Inhalable crack-cocaine,” Adam says flatly. “There’s something of an epidemic, as of late.”

“Speaking of inhalable,” says Moze, fondly, “I’ve made lunch, I was just coming to let you know. I assume our guests will be joining us?”

“Uh,” says Alice.

Her stomach takes the moment to gargle loudly.

“I’m allergic to nuts,” Rob says.

If he weren’t so violently red Alice thinks he might be paling at the edges.

“Excellent,” says Moze, “Adam, come help set the table, would you dear?”

 _Dear._ Alice glances at Rob again. He’s chewing on the edge of his glass anxiously, eyes out over the bank and into the trees. He must not have noticed.

“Sure,” Adam says, and on his way below deck pauses to say, “help yourself to some more tea.”

They disappear down the steps, and Alice slams the heel of her glass on the picnic table with an explosive sigh.

“ _Shit_ ,” Rob says, “fuck. They know.”

“They don’t know,” Alice says swiftly.

“They fucking _know_ , Alice. What the hell else would two fucking pansy Americans be doing in the middle of fucking nowhere like this. _Fishing._ My _ass_.”

“Shut up,” she hisses, “they might hear you.”

“Where the hell is Peter?” He demands next. “Christ, he can’t need to get the package out already, can he? He said he’d been a mule before.”

“Yeah, like six pellets. I don’t think he’s done twelve before.”

“Aw, _shit_.”

“I’ll go check on him,” Alice decides, standing, “wait here.”

She hesitates.

“Have you still got your gun?”

Rob looks up at her, the anxiety bleeds from his expression, but his nod is firm when he pulls the shirt away from his waist, sopping with sweat. The grip of the handgun protrudes from his baggy cargo pants.

“Cool,” she wrings her hands, “I’ll be right back.”

Alice sets her glass down. The ice has already melted. Her hands are wet and cold.

Creeping across the deck she passes the radio, where the swelling vocals of _Madame Butterfly_ are blurring with white static. There is a hum further inside the boat, like a generator, or a large freezer. She slowly descends the white steps into the belly. The stairs open into a small kitchen area, but Adam and Moze are nowhere to be seen. There is food set out on the small fold-out table, a platter of meats shaved razor-thin and arranged amidst an _Enselada de Palmito_. Two tall glasses contain iced tea, half-full with ice. There is lemon slices split on the sides.

It is much cooler below deck, and Alice’s overheated skin pebbles at the change of temperature. She hears voices further in, past a wall, and sneaks around the edge of the table to where a doorway splits off to what she thinks is a bedroom.

“—waste,” Moze is saying, a little sulkily.

“Only the one,” Adam replies calmly. There is a great sigh.

“Do you still want to head back?”

“Do _you_?” Adam counters.

A pause.

“The others,” Moze says.

“They were at the camp,” Adam agrees, and Alice’s stomach plummets. “Rich socialites from the West Coast in too deep, my guess is.”

“Your _guess_?”

“My observation.”

“They are usually correct,” says Moze.

Alice peeks around the corner.

There is a large bed situated close to the ground, with white covers. Adam and Moze are standing beside it, with their backs to her, looking on to another doorway which might lead off into the bathroom. As she watches, Moze slides one bronze arm around Adam’s waist. Adam tilts his head up. Alice’s heart thuds in her chest.

Moze grazes his flat lip over the swell of Adam’s cheek. There’s something under the beard there, Alice thinks, a raised sort of texture. A scar.

“The boy has a gun,” says Adam.

Alice swallows hard.

“Then we will have to be very careful,” murmurs Moze.

They kiss. Adam sighs into it, the possessive arm around his waist, the way Moze’s other hand curves around his ass, pulling him into the embrace. Alice’s body is on fire. She wants to run, she knows she _should_ run, but then she would be leaving Peter – wherever the hell he was.

“The girl is clean,” says Adam, and Alice comes back to herself, her breath laboured, her face burning. “Down here on daddy’s money, I think.”

“She was the one you saw in town?”

Alice’s tongue feels too big for her throat, her heart is hurting with how fast it pounds.

“At the museum,” Adam agrees.

“She’s in the kitchen,” Moze says.

“I know,” Adam says coolly, and then looks over Moze’s shoulder, gaze locking with Alice’s. She gasps, and tries to run, but her legs are jelly beneath her. She crumples to the ground in a heap, sweaty hand leaving sticky trails of iced tea against the linoleum floor.

“Don’t worry,” Adam says, “the drugs should be kicking in any time now.”

“Like I said,” Moze hums, “the things people put into their bodies. It spoils the meat.”

When Alice hits the floor, she sees past them, to the open bathroom door. Peter’s face stares back at her, blank and dead, collapsed over the toilet with mute shock. There is black on his back and neck. Blood, she thinks.

“Such a waste,” Moze sighs.

“Chin up,” says Adam, “there’s always next time.”

 

* * *

 

 

On the river, insects hum loudly amidst the whirr of the electric fans. Somewhere in the jungle an animal call echoes within the bushes. On the deck of the houseboat, Wagner swells again, and Will casts out his line.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I don't know  
> 2\. 'Moze' is Lithuanian for "Saved From the Water", roughly  
> 3\. Drugs are bad, kids.  
> 4\. Would you believe I wrote this after watching Anaconda


End file.
